Please Don't Go
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A hella angsty story about House's pain.


In her sleep, she rolled over, reached for him. But he wasn't there.

She opened her eyes.

"House," she whispered quietly, so as not to wake Rachel. There was no answer.

She put on a robe and slippers, padded into the living room.

He was sitting on the couch, rubbing his pajama leg with one hand. His head was down, and his was body was doubled over, almost in a fetal position.

If pain could take human form, she thought, this is exactly what it would look like.

"House!" she said, rushing over to him. "My God, are you okay?"

He looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She sat next to him on the couch, tentatively put a hand on his shoulder.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"Bad," he said, grimacing.

"On a scale from 1 to 10," she asked.

"12," he said.

Jesus.

"What can I do?"

"Go back to bed."

"I couldn't sleep now if I tried. Can I get you something? Some Advil?"

He held up a half-empty bottle of Advil that was tucked next to him on the couch.

"How many have you taken?" she asked.

"8," he said.

"That's enough," she said, snatching the bottle away from him.

He glared at her.

Her mind flashed to his days on vicodin, how crazed he was whenever he couldn't get his pills.

It's ibuprofen, Lisa. Not a narcotic. He's not addicted.

"How about a massage? Will that help?"

She knew that a good massage could ease his pain (even one without a happy ending). But when she reached toward his leg, he lurched away violently.

"Don't!" he snapped.

She retracted her hand, as though she had just touched something hot.

"I'm sorry . . ." she mumbled. "I thought it would help."

He closed his eyes tightly. Tried to steady his voice.

"When the pain is like this, I just have to ride it out, okay?" he said. "Please, please go back to bed, Cuddy."

He opened his eyes now, looked at her beseechingly.

She couldn't stand seeing him in such agony. She actually felt physically ill herself.

"Alright," she said. "Just wake me up if you need anything, okay?"

She brushed the hair off his forehead, kissed the top of his head. He was coated in sweat.

"Okay," he said, looking away.

She went back to the bedroom and tried to sleep.

#######

In the year they'd been dating, she'd never forgotten about House's pain. It was evident, every time he tried to walk up a flight of stairs, or pick up Rachel, or even attempt some particularly vigorous move in the bedroom. But he certainly was doing much better.

She'd always known that House's pain was a potent cocktail of the real effects of his infarction combined with his own psychic pain and the mind-altering tricks of vicodin addiction. But he was clean now and happy—well, House's version of happy at least—and lately the pain had been downright manageable.

So what the hell was this? She hoped it was an aberration. A one-night setback.

But it wasn't. The next day, she noticed him limping much more severely at the hospital—and later she caught him leaning against a wall to steady himself as he made his way down a corridor.

That night, she was awakened again by the same lover's sixth sense—that feeling you have when your partner is not in the bed beside you.

He was on the couch again, breathing heavily. But this time, he had an exacto knife in his hand. He was about to cut himself on the arm—an old trick to release endorphins.

"Are you out of your mind?" she yelled, grabbing the knife away from him.

"Give it back!" he said.

"Bullshit, House. I'm not letting you hurt yourself, not in my home."

"Then l'll go back to my place," he muttered.

"Don't," she said, sitting next to him, feeling helpless. "There has to be something I can do to help."

"Just leave me alone," he said.

It was a fundamental rule that men wanted to be alone when they were in pain and women wanted to console them. Something had to give—and since the man in question was House, Cuddy should've been smart enough to let him be.

But she was as stubborn as he was.

"Can I distract you?" she said.

She went to kiss him, trying to make him smile. He shook her off angrily.

"Get off," he hissed.

"It might help," she said, tracing his hand slowly with her fingers. Sex had never failed to cheer him up before. She put one of his fingers in her mouth, sucked on it suggestively.

"What are going to do?" he screamed. "You're going to heal me with your magic pussy?"

"House!" she dropped his hand, stung by his nastiness.

He immediately regretted it.

"It just hurts," he said quietly. "It just fucking hurts. And there's nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it."

He didn't have to tell her go back to sleep this time. She turned and left on her own.

##########

By the morning, he had made his way back to the bed. He was sleeping now, almost peaceful. Seeing his body at rest, she felt her own tension ease. She got dressed quietly, trying not wake him. But as she passed by his side of the bed, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"It's okay, House," she whispered. "Go back to sleep."

She kissed his hand and went to make Rachel breakfast.

#########

"I'm worried about House."

She and Wilson were sitting in the cafeteria, having lunch.

"What did he do this time?"

"He's in pain."

"He's always in pain."

"It's worse, he can't sleep. He was this close to cutting himself. And he's being a total asshole about it."

She moved her fork through her salad—not so much eating her food as rearranging it.

"Is he upset about something?" Wilson asked.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Cuddy said.

"Why don't you ask him?"

"You know I can't. If I were to even suggest that his pain was brought on by something emotional —well, that would really tick him off."

"You want me to ask him?"

"No. Then he'd know that you and I talked."

They looked at each other.

"Maybe it'll pass," Wilson said. "He's had these flare-ups before. It gets unbearable for a while and then it recedes."

"But in the meantime. . ." she said uneasily, not wanting to finish the sentence.

"In the meantime. . .you're worried he's going to go back on vicodin."

"Yeah," she said.

"But he's been staying at your place every night, right? He doesn't have any stash there."

"I'm pretty sure he's capable of sneaking some in," Cuddy said with a sigh.

"What are you going to do?"

"I literally have no idea."

"I think the worst thing that can happen to a relationship is loss of trust," Wilson said. "You have to trust that he's going to stay off drugs."

She rested her hand on her chin. "You're right. . .I just don't know how much more of this either of us can take."

########

She didn't listen to Wilson's advice. The next day, after dropping Rachel off at daycare, she went into her bedroom and started rummaging through the two drawers she had given him, looking for pills.

"What the hell are you doing?"

House was standing in the doorway. She hadn't expected him home for hours.

She stopped what she was doing, closed the drawer hastily.

"You're home!" she said, trying to sound cheerful.

"You're looking for vicodin," he growled.

"No, I. . .uh, I . . .was just putting some sachets in the drawer," she lied feebly.

"You don't trust me," he said.

"I do trust you, House. I'm just worried about you . . ."

He approached her in anger. She was suddenly aware of his size relative to hers. He towered over her.

"Go ahead, take a good look," he said. He pulled the drawer open, and began hurling the contents—his t-shirts, a few pairs of boxers, his socks—onto the floor. He unfolded a pair of socks. Shook them out.

"There? You happy?"

Grabbed another pair of socks—shook them out, too.

"No drugs here! Satisfied?"

He was working himself into something of a state.

"House, calm down."

He grabbed her wrist.

"I'm not on vicodin Cuddy. If I were on vicodin, I wouldn't be in so much fucking pain, now would I?"

"No. . .I guess not. . .House, you're hurting me."

"Am I?" He gripped her wrist harder, stared down at her. "It's no fun to be in pain, is it? And you know what else is no fun? When you've worked your ass off to stay clean for 2 years and your own girlfriend doesn't trust you."

His face was contorted in rage.

She put her free hand on his chest, trying to both calm him down and push him away.

But the touch seemed to only incense him more.

"Maybe I'll take you up on that offer to heal my pain with your magic vagina," he said, shoving her roughly against the dresser and kissing her hard. There was nothing romantic, or even particularly sexual about the kiss—it was an act of pure aggression. He twisted her arm behind her back, and rammed his tongue farther in her mouth. Then he hiked up her skirt so violently, her pantyhose tore.

"House, please. . ." she said.

She started to cry. And somehow, miraculously, her tears were enough to jar him from his mania.

He let her go, staggered back a bit, his mouth open at the horror of what he had just done—and how much worse it could've been.

"I . . .I . . ." he said. But he had no words. He stared at her dumbly for a second and left.

########

They avoided each other at work. And for the first time in 6 months, House stayed at his apartment, not with her.

She was furious with him—hurt, ashamed, disgusted. But she was also worried.

If she had been concerned that he might go back on vicodin before, now she had twice the reason to be alarmed.

She wanted to talk to Wilson, but frankly the whole encounter had been too humiliating to share. Besides, she had gone against his advice. He told her to trust House and she had gone snooping for pills.

This is not your fault, she reminded herself. House had been angry and viciously insulting before you went looking for those pills.

Experience told her that he wouldn't seek her out. He was very good at avoidance, and even better at wallowing in his own misery. So she finally went to his office.

He was looking over some scans. He looked like shit. He'd been wearing the same black T-shirt and jeans for the past few days. His usual coating of stubble had turned into a nearly full beard.

"We need to talk," she said.

"I'll come get my stuff this weekend," he said quietly, not looking up.

"You think I want you to move out?"

"Don't you?"

"I don't know what I want."

"To see me castrated?" he said, managing an ironic laugh.

"Just tell me what you're feeling," she said.

"Let's see. Well for starters, I hate myself," he said.

"Why?"

She was standing several feet away from his desk—still not sure she wanted to be physically close to him.

"I practically raped you," he muttered.

"Nothing happened," she said. "You would never let it get that far."

He took in the sight of her wrist, which was still slightly raw from where he had grabbed her that afternoon.

"I hurt you," he said.

"I'm fine." She looked down, hastily pulled her jacket sleeve over the bruise.

"Well . . .I'm not."

"Just please tell me what's going on with you."

"I'm in pain," he said.

She actually felt a small bit of relief upon hearing that. She looked at his eyes—they weren't glassy. He looked tired, depressed, but definitely sober.

"But why are you in pain?"

"Have you seen the giant hole in my leg, Cuddy? It doesn't tickle."

She wasn't going to let him get away with that—not this time.

"But why this flare-up, House? Why now?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Think," she insisted. "What happened? Did something happen to upset you?"

He still couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. There was a very long silence.

"I guess it's because I know," he finally said, in a resigned voice.

"You know what?" she said.

"That you're going to leave me."

"What?"

"I heard you talking to Julia."

Her mind flashed to a conversation she'd had with her sister more than a week ago. She was complaining about her boyfriend, as all women did.

She tried to think of anything specific she had said that might've set him off.

"You told her that you were exhausted and that you felt like you were raising two children," House said.

"Well, that part is true," Cuddy said, with a grim smile.

"And then you said that you didn't know how much more of it you could take," he said, finally looking at her.

Shit. She had said that. The previous night, she had come home from work, exhausted, and Rachel was hungry and cranky and the house was a mess and her bills weren't paid and House was lying in bed playing video games like he didn't have a care in the world.

"It was just talk, House," she said.

"Talk about dumping me," he said.

She shook her head.

"You are a real piece of work, you know that? First of all, stop eavesdropping on my conversations. Second of all, you realize I had no intention of dumping you last week. Now, I'm not so sure. Does the phrase self-fulfilling prophecy mean anything to you?"

"I'm sorry," he said, putting his head in his hands. "I fucked everything up."

"Just come home tonight," she said. "No more talk about packing your stuff. Let's work this out—together, okay?"

He didn't say anything.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he said.

She managed to make her way to his side of the desk. She leaned down, kissed him on the lips. His beard felt rough against her face. She knew that she still loved him, despite it all.

"How's the pain?" she asked. "Scale from 1 to 10."

"8," he said.

"Well, that's a little better."

########

When he got home, she was putting Rachel to bed. He limped into her bedroom.

"Howse!" Rachel said cheerfully.

"Hello, tiny person," he said.

Cuddy pulled out one of Rachel's favorite books, "Goodnight Moon" and opened it.

"Let me," House said, taking it from her.

She smiled at him—understanding his gesture.

"Rachel, is it okay if House reads you your bedtime story?"

"Yay!" Rachel said, clapping.

Cuddy kissed her daughter goodnight, left the room, went to the kitchen to make herself some Earl Grey tea. She heard House reading, and she heard Rachel giggling. He always embellished stories when he read to her—she suspected he had already deviated from the cutesy text.

After a while, he emerged from her room.

"She's asleep," he said.

"Good job, doctor," Cuddy said. She pat the couch next to her. He sat, put an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured in her ear.

"I know you are, House."

"I'll never you hurt again," he said.

"I know you won't," she said, snuggling against him. "And I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm proud of you for not taking any pills."

"Thank you," he said. He kissed the top of her shoulder.

"You want to watch that idiotic show you taped. . . the one with that guy with the tan and the teeth and all the crying people?"

"Extreme Home Makeover?"

"Yeah, that one."

They watched his stupid show—House's capacity to enjoy horrible pop culture was virtually unlimited—and went to bed.

Cuddy climbed on him, careful to avoid his bad leg, and kissed him—it was a kiss that was intended to initiate sex. But he was still gun shy. He kissed her back softly, his eyes open, searching her face for clues.

"It's okay, House. I want to."

They made love. It reminded her a bit of their first time as an official couple—when he'd received her with such awe and gratitude.

Afterwards, sated and just happy to be close to him again, she closed her eyes. He must've thought she was asleep, because she heard him whisper softly, barely audibly, into the darkness:

"Please don't ever leave me."


End file.
